


Mausoleum

by biblionerd07



Series: In Times of War [3]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epic Bromance, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 13:57:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biblionerd07/pseuds/biblionerd07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miles does his best to comfort Bass after he loses his family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mausoleum

**Author's Note:**

> This is not strictly while they're at war, but hey, at this point they were both still active duty Marines, so I'm counting it.

Miles woke up horribly conscious of the fact that Bass’s steady weight was gone. Horribly conscious because of the pins and needles Bass’s head had left behind in his arm, and because of the cold steel feeling of the gun Miles had taken from Bass earlier that night.

He told himself to calm down. He’d made it clear to Bass that hurting himself would hurt Miles, and Miles knew Bass well enough to know he’d never willingly do that. Bass was safe now, Miles was sure. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t worried about his best friend. Miles and Bass had been sharing a bed since Bass had gotten the news, because when Bass was distraught he needed physical contact. It was like they were seven again, in the summer of Bass’s zombie nightmares. If Miles was honest with himself (which he tried to do as little as possible), they were also sharing a bed because Miles was freaked out and needed to be able to wake up in the middle of the night and feel his best friend’s chest rising and falling to make sure he was still breathing. But Bass had vanished and Miles felt spooked.

He considered giving Bass some alone time for about half a second. Miles knew Bass too well for that. Bass didn’t do well with alone time. That “family dinner” at the cemetery was proof of that. Miles didn’t have to think hard to know where Bass was. There was a small porch off his bedroom where they’d spent millions of summer nights camping, pirates on a ship, astronauts, wizards, anything they could think up. Bass’s mom had strung up a hammock during their pirate phase, and it looked forlorn now, long unused.

Bass was sitting with his legs through the railings like a little boy, his head resting against the hand rail. Miles winced a little as he bent to assume the same position. His body was older than his mind these days.

“Did I wake you up?” Bass asked sleepily, not raising his head. Miles shrugged.

“Just woke up and you weren’t there.”

Bass didn’t say anything. Miles put a hand on his back. A light breeze was kicking up a little chill, and Bass was shivering slightly.

“I have to go through their stuff.” Bass’s voice was muffled because he had his face pressed against the wooden bars. “I have to…box it up or something. I have to sell this house.”

“You could keep it.” Miles felt a crushing sadness at the thought of losing Bass’s house. It felt more like home than his own house ever had. Bass’s house was all warm hugs and home-cooked meals and questions about how the day had gone. Miles’s house was stilted conversation and avoiding eye contact. Miles and Bass had collectively won a goldfish at a school fair once (both boys claimed to have been the actual winner but were graciously sharing both credit and prize with the other) that had died in just under four hours, and they’d buried it in the yard. (Not deep enough, and a neighbor’s cat had dug it up, much to Bass’s sisters’ sheer horror.) A big tree on the side of the house wearily bore a few nailed-in boards when they’d grown impatient waiting for Bass’s dad and tried to build a treehouse themselves.

“I can’t keep it.” Bass whispered, and he was crying again. “It’s just…it’s everything I lost. It’s them and—and they’re gone.”

Miles moved the hand on Bass’s back up to give his neck a squeeze. Somehow that had always been his silent communication to Bass. Bass always gave him hugs, but Miles had never been so open with affection. He’d greedily accept hugs that Bass gave him, but somehow he had the hardest time giving them. It was like his arms didn’t know how to move that way; he got all stiff and awkward when he tried to initiate it. Bass always laughed at him and either started the hug himself or let Miles switch to a neck squeeze. Bass’s whole body was trembling now.

“A mausoleum.” Bass said suddenly. His voice was eerie—hollow and emotionless, so incredibly not Bass, and it made Miles swallow apprehensively.

“What?”

“If I kept the house, it would be a mausoleum.”

Miles was quiet. He kind of knew what a mausoleum was. Like a tomb, right? He didn’t want to own up to the fact that he didn’t really know what the word meant. Bass read books like they were going out of style, so he’d always had a larger vocabulary than Miles.

“A macabre tomb for a whole family.” Bass’s eyes were unfocused, looking straight ahead. He wasn’t being condescending; Miles knew Bass’s condescending tone very well, because it used to cause almost weekly fights between them. Bass’s voice was strange—he was on the razor-thin line between laughing and crying, hysterical either way.

“Bass…”

“I should die in this house so it can be for real.”

“Bass!” Miles’s heart was pounding. Hadn’t he talked Bass out of this? “Bass, don’t…” Miles couldn’t even finish the sentence. Don’t what? Don’t kill yourself? Don’t talk about killing yourself?

“I know, Miles.” Bass’s voice was so soft Miles almost couldn’t hear him. Bass finally looked at him and Miles could see how ripped apart Bass was, as if he didn’t already know.

“Bass, just…” Miles felt helpless, a feeling he loathed with every part of him. He tugged at Bass’s shoulder and Bass, because he would do anything for Miles, obediently pulled away from the rails. Miles pulled Bass to his feet and led him back into the room, carefully tucking his best friend into bed and curling himself around Bass protectively, as if holding him would save him from his own dark thoughts.

“I won’t hurt myself, Miles.” Bass reassured him, his voice muffled against Miles’s arm because Miles had him in a death grip. “I already promised you that.”

“You’ve been hurting yourself since it happened.” Miles murmured. Bass went still.

“I haven’t—”

“You’re torturing yourself.”

Miles felt Bass’s tears on his arm and tears welled up in his own eyes. He could fight school bullies for Bass, he could pull Bass out of a firefight, he could drag Bass’s drunk ass home from a bar, but how was he supposed to save Bass from this?

“What am I supposed to do?” Bass moaned, echoing Miles’s thoughts. “This isn’t some girl, this isn’t some stupid fight, this is my _family_ and they’re _never coming back_.”

“I know,” Miles said. The truth was all he had. “I don’t know what to tell you, Bass, I just…I don’t know.” Miles was crying now, too, the two of them holding tight. Miles hated that he was breaking down when he should’ve been staying strong for Bass. How could he help Bass if he couldn’t even control himself?

Eventually they cried themselves out, their breaths still coming in hitched little gasps, still clinging to one another. Miles had a headache. He hated crying.

“I could—do you want some sleeping pills or something?” Miles just wanted Bass to be able to sleep, because when Bass got tired it got harder for him to stay rational. Bass shook his head against Miles’s arm.

“Don’t leave.” Bass’s plea was quiet, exhausted, and he didn’t put much force in it because he knew he didn’t have to. “That’s what I need.” Miles tightened his grip around Bass.

“I won’t go.” Miles promised. “I’ll stay right here, Bass. I’ll stay.”


End file.
